


And There Was A Fire On The Hearth

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dad Dean, Dean-Centric, F/M, Family Feels, M/M, Nesting Dean Winchester, Pining Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e13 Destiny's Child, Post-Episode: s15e14 Last Holiday, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, but before s15e15 Gimme Shelter, episode coda, rejection-sensitive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: A lump forming in his throat and his legs shaky, Dean only just manages to open Baby's driver's side door before he collapses into the seat. The plate in his lap, he leans on her steering wheel with a hand over his eyes, his breath shuddering wetly in and out.He’s holding onto the plate so tightly his fingers hurt, but a few tears escape anyway. They leave burning hot trails down his cheeks, and his chest hurts so bad. Like someone made sure to break every single one of his ribs clean in two, and now the pieces are stabbing into all those hidden, vulnerable places that no one’s supposed to even lightly touch.
Relationships: Background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [casgirlsam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casgirlsam/gifts).



> because Chriss belongs in baby jail for Dad!Dean crimes

_burning before him_

  
  
  
  


After a night of very little sleeping and a lot of worrying, Dean drags himself to the kitchen only to find everyone already there. 

“Good morning,” Jack says, beaming at him. 

That eerie coldness is gone, and the warmth is back in his expression. There’s a hesitancy though, and that’s new. 

Dean swallows what feels like acid reflux trying to claw up his throat, except it’s only air. He gives the kid a tight smile and an awkward wave that probably makes him look like a complete idiot. It doesn’t help that he’s in his robe while everyone else is already properly dressed. 

He fumbles with the coffee machine, keeping his back to everyone. The machine is loud enough that he can't really hear what the others are talking about. From what he does catch, it sounds like they're going over the whole Grigori thing again. 

What even the fuck. Their kid is back but he eats hearts now. 

Not right now at least—Jack is chopping an apple. Sam is grazing on some yogurt-and-granola abomination. Dean kind of wants bacon, but that'd mean sitting down with the others to eat, and he can't do that. Not yet.

He manages to sneak out of the kitchen with his coffee before anyone can stop him, and then he hides in his room to drink it like some total jackass. He's half convinced Sam is going to come knocking at his door any minute to call him a coward, but it doesn't happen. 

Still, Dean chugs his coffee quickly, which is a bad idea because it doesn't exactly help with how jittery he's feeling. He knows he's being kind of ridiculous but he sneaks into the shower next, and gives the kitchen and library a wide berth. 

When stuff feels like it's all a little too much and he needs time to process, it usually helps him to spend some quality time with his best girl, so after his shower he heads down to the garage. Baby deserves a spa anyway. 

“‘M’so sorry, girl,” he soothes, smoothing a hand over her roof. He’d been way too rough with her in his frustration when she shut down on them. “Imma make it up to you, okay?” 

Dean does. He’s soaking wet by the end, but his mind is calm and his hands are steady. And Baby’s clean and gleaming inside and out.

Dean’s so focused on telling his girl how pretty she is that he completely misses Sam entering the garage. 

“You done sweet-talking your car or should I come back later?” Sam points behind himself, his expression a blend of mock-disgust and amusement. 

Dean glowers at him over Baby’s roof. 

“Shaddup. Be nice to ‘er, she’s been workin' hard.”

Sam holds up his hands in surrender. Well, one hand. Because the other is holding—a plate?

"I'll leave you two alone, then. Just came to bring you this." He bends down and puts the plate on top of the green cooler that Dean had set on the floor so he could clean the backseat.

There's a sandwich on the plate. Dean eyes it with suspicion. 

"What's that?" He asks, frowning. 

"It's called a sandwich, and it's not gonna bite you," Sam replies, and Dean scowls at his patronizing tone. Sam's expression softens. 

"Jack made it for you. He saw you flee the kitchen without breakfast and he got worried."

If this were the fucked up universe where Dean's life is a TV show, his stomach would growl right about now, just to prove Sam's point. It’s not, but maybe the only reason his stomach doesn't growl anyway is because Dean feels like he just got punched in it. 

Sam must read the signs of Dean closing himself off in self-defense correctly, because he continues even more softly. 

"It's okay to need some space. Just don't wait too long to come back, alright?" And then the killing blow. "He's missed you, too."

Jaw clenched and shoulders rigid, Dean waits until he can't hear Sam's footsteps anymore. It takes him an additional couple seconds to get his feet moving, and then he walks around Baby and picks up the plate.

It's peanut butter and jam, thickly spread and with the crust cut off meticulously. 

A lump forming in his throat and his legs shaky, Dean only just manages to open Baby's driver's side door before he collapses into the seat. The plate in his lap, he leans on her steering wheel with a hand over his eyes, his breath shuddering wetly in and out. 

He’s holding onto the plate so tightly his fingers hurt, but a few tears escape anyway. They leave burning hot trails down his cheeks, and his chest hurts so bad. Like someone made sure to break every single one of his ribs clean in two, and now the pieces are stabbing into all those hidden, vulnerable places that no one’s supposed to even lightly touch. 

When he can breathe again, he shakily tears a piece off the sandwich. Stuffs the piece into his mouth, and it pushes down the sob that was caught there. Then he tears off the next piece, and the next, until the plate is empty. 

It takes him a long time to leave the garage. Mercifully, he doesn’t run into anyone. But when he walks past the library, Cas is there, typing away on one of their laptops and frowning in concentration. 

Dean has taken a step towards him before he’s even realized what he’s doing. What the fuck, he can’t go to Cas right now. Dean looks like a mess. Like a crybaby who lost it over a sandwich. 

He retreats back into the hallway. In the kitchen, he carefully washes and dries the plate and puts it away. 

Dean looks around for a moment, and he can’t even remember the last time he really cooked in here, for more than just Sam and himself. 

That realization brings a fresh wave of emotion, and the next thing he knows he’s in his room, sitting on his bed. He wrings his shaking hands, trying to keep it together. 

He’s shivering. It takes him a bit to realize it’s getting worse because he’s still in his wet clothes. 

Clumsily, he shrugs out of his flannel. He’s kicked off his boots and has his pants halfway down his legs when there’s a knock on his door. 

His half-open door, because apparently he was so out of it he didn’t even close it all the way.

“Dean? Can I come in?” 

Cas. 

Sitting on his bed in only a tee and boxers, frozen with his pants halfway off, Dean means to say _Gimme a sec_ but some kind of weirdly strangled sound is all that makes it out of his throat. 

"Dean?" Cas repeats, sounding concerned. He pushes the door open and then stops, eyes widening. 

"Oh, you, um—" Cas quickly turns around while Dean scrambles for a blanket to cover himself. It's so fucking awkward, and Cas is just standing there with his back to Dean, somehow even more flustered than him. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I was just—I swear, I didn't see anything."

Jesus, can he stop.

"It's fine," Dean grumbles, embarrassed and annoyed by it. He throws the blanket to the side and kicks his pants the rest of the way off, then stalks over to his dresser. 

He's all the way dressed again already when he realizes that his flannel doesn't match his tee. It shouldn't fucking matter. Ain't like he's trying to impress anyone, right?

Right.

With an eye roll at himself, Dean shrugs back out of the brown flannel and into a red checkered one. He feels fucking stupid doing it, but tells himself it's okay because not wanting to look like a mess is perfectly normal. 

There is one problem though; he _is_ a mess—no color coordinated outfit can change that. 

“Are you, um. Decent?”

Cas still sounds flustered and he still has his back turned. The way he’s so earnestly if awkwardly trying to preserve Dean’s dignity or whatever makes Dean feel warm inside with fondness. 

And makes him hurt. Cas turned away because him entering the room and looking at Dean when he’s not fully dressed is an intimacy they can’t have. Probably one that Dean's alone in wanting, anyway.

“Yeah, sure.”

Completely at a loss as to what to do with himself, Dean sits down on his bed. It suddenly occurs to him that he didn’t put his boots back on and it makes him feel oddly vulnerable. 

Cas has turned around, but he’s hovering in the doorway. Seeing his own uncertainty reflected back at him like that makes Dean close to angry. He waves Cas in and Cas shuts the door and sits down on Dean’s desk chair. 

He’s being stupid, he knows, but just those small actions have Dean calm down again. It feels more private with the door closed, and with both of them sitting down it’s like they’re on more even ground. 

“What’s up?”

Cas has his business face on, but the moment their eyes meet he stops and frowns. "Dean, what’s wrong?"

For a beat, Dean's thrown by the question until he realizes that his eyes must still be red. That's—fuck, he didn't mean for anyone to see him like this. For anyone to have to deal with him when he can't handle something. 

Ducking his head, Dean angrily swipes a hand over his face. "'s fine."

" _Dean,_ " Cas says, and Dean can't help the way his shoulders hunch and his cheeks burn with shame, even though Cas sounds more concerned than scolding. 

"Was just all a little bit much is all." He fidgets with his hands, shoulders curved over his chest. Briefly, he chances a look up at Cas, and— _oh_ , oh no, abort mission. 

Cas is regarding Dean with a soft look in his eyes and that's not okay.

"It has been a lot," Cas agrees. It's such a Cas thing to say that under different circumstances it might have made Dean smile. Now, he can only manage a nod. 

This hurts too, how wrongfooted he feels. They're okay again, him and Cas, but how okay? The uncertainty has Dean stay quiet, has him keep his head down and pick at his nails. 

He’s missed Cas. 

He’s missed _them._ Dean and Cas, together. 

“You look tired,” Cas is saying, moving to stand up again. “I should let you get some rest.”

No, no, no.

“I’m good,” Dean says quickly, waving his hand dismissively for emphasis. Frantically casting his eyes around, they land on the TV. “C’mon, let’s watch something. We still need to catch you up on Wynonna Earp.”

Already halfway to the door, Cas hesitates. It makes him feel needy and stupid, but Dean can’t help the hopeful, pleading look he’s sure is on his face. Watching something together means they’ll close the door and sit side by side on the bed or in the armchairs in the Dean Cave. It means Dean gets Cas all to himself for a while—Cas’s attention, his body heat, his thoughts and opinions. His fond smiles whenever Dean says something ridiculous. 

Sometimes when they’re on the bed and Dean’s fallen asleep on Cas’s shoulder, Dean even gets a gentle touch or two. Like when Cas eases himself out from under him and tucks the blanket over his legs. 

Cas meets his eyes. Because Dean’s apparently a pining housewife whose husband just got back from the war, his heart skips a beat and he has to fight the urge to reach for Cas’s hand. 

Maybe now that they’re back home and there’s no rush, Cas will hear him. Maybe Dean can be really, really brave and pause the episode halfway through and tell Cas the rest of what he’d wanted to say. 

Dean’s hope soars when Cas offers him a gentle smile, so it takes a moment for him to register what Cas is saying. “I should get back to my research.”

Struggling to hide his disappointment, Dean flounders for a moment. “Okay, um. I’ll come help.” He starts looking for his boots but Cas holds up a hand.

“Thank you, but the text I’m reading is in Ancient Canaanite. And Sam is already working through the other ones.”

Right.

Cas reaches out and gives Dean’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and a rub. Even while he’s let down at Cas rejecting his offer of alone time, he cherishes the touch. 

“Let yourself rest, Dean. You deserve it.”

Maybe, yeah. But when has that mattered, like ever?

Cas goes back to the library, leaving Dean standing there feeling kind of useless and a little stupid. 

He _is_ tired. It’d be so easy to lie down in bed and nest himself under the covers and forget about everything for a while. Be kind of nice actually. 

That’s crybaby Dean talking though. It’s high time for getting-shit-done Dean to take over. To roll up his sleeves, put on his big boy pants, and—well, get shit done. 

Putting his boots back on, he makes his way to the kitchen. First order of business : fix their buggy stove so Dean can do what he does best—feed his family.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so maybe Dean had been a little naive about Mrs. Butters. But she made him Rice Krispie treats! And gave him that kickass nightgown! Dean’s going to wear it every night from now on. It’s so… snuggly. And soft.

And anyway, it had all worked out fine in the end. Except, of course, Sammy has to be a little shit about it and tease Dean about having ‘caught the bug.’ 

“You haven’t taken that apron off in like a week.”

Bent over his tray of chocolate and peanut butter cookies that are about ready to go into the oven, Dean checks one last time that they’re all arranged in a way that they won’t stick together as they bake. “Fuck off, Sammy, ‘m busy.”

Sneaking up behind him, Sam steals a chocolate chip off of one of the cookies before Dean can slap his hand away. Fucking hell but kids are the worst. How did Dean end up with _two_? And why did one of them have to be taller than him and with freakishly long arms? 

Dean glowers at Sam, but it has zero effect. Smugly munching on his stolen chocolate and his eyes lit up with mischief, Sam only seems amused. 

Grabbing his oven mitts, Dean puts the tray in the pre-heated oven. The heat makes his cheeks flush, warms his hands and his chest. 

“You know I’m just ribbing you, right?” Sam is saying, still amused but softer now, fonder. “It’s good to see you—you know, nest. Enjoy stuff again.”

Dean bristles. So what if he’s nesting? Somebody’s got to. Mrs. Butters was right, they shouldn’t lose sight of comfort and nice things. And Dean’s an _expert_ in comfort. Sam and Cas kind of suck at it, and Jack’s their kid, so it’s up to Dean to teach all of them.

Still smiling, Sam holds up his hands in mock surrender. “There’s flour in your hair, by the way.” 

Dean reaches up to check, only he’s still got his oven mitts on and only succeeds in almost poking himself in the eye with them. Sam snort-laughs and Dean chucks one of the mitts at him. Ducking out of the way, Sam is almost out of the kitchen when Dean remembers— “What the fuck are you even doing here, don’t you have a date?” 

“Yeah, but on Skype. Eileen’s three states away on a hunt.”

Picking up the mitt, Dean points it at Sam sternly. “Don’t let that woman go, Sammy. She’s good for you, I like her.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dean, you’ve said. And I’m not planning to.”

“Good. Now fuck off, I gotta prep dinner and I don’t want your stupid hair to end up in the sauce.”

>

Dean takes the cookies out a little early on purpose, so they're still just the right kind of soft. They don’t look as neatly and prettily shaped as Mrs. Butters’ did, but who gives a fuck what they look like. Munching on one as soon as they’ve cooled enough, Dean hums to himself. With the peanut butter, they’re exactly the right kind of salty _and_ sweet. 

Yum.

Maybe he can put some aside for Sammy to give to Eileen the next time they see each other in person, which Dean hopes will be soon. They’re cute together, so sue him. Besides, who wants flowers when they can have cookies, right? 

That’s another thing Dean appreciates about the girl—unlike Sam, she knows how to eat. Though, ever since they started dating, Sam has loosened up a little. Maybe if Dean packs enough cookies, they’ll share. That’s romantic, right?

“Did you bake these?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Dean realizes that the kid has someone materialized right next to him. Not like, teleported—he’s not allowed to use his powers yet, after all. But like, snuck up on. Who taught their kid to be this sneaky? Not Dean, that’s for sure.

“Uh, yeah. You want some? They’re still warm, that’s when they’re best, trust me.”

Dean reaches for a plate and Jack frowns.

“Cas and Sam say you shouldn’t eat sweets before dinner.”

Yeah, because they’re both party poopers. And like, boring and old—unlike Dean, who is _obviously_ a spring chicken. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t. C’mon.” Dean puts some cookies on the plate and then fixes a glass of milk. “There you go.”

Jack accepts both and then looks at Dean like he did when he got his lopsided birthday cake. “Thank you, Dean.”

Ducking away, his ears feeling like they’re on fire, Dean grabs a dishtowel to fiddle with. “‘Course. Now scram, before—”

“Jack? Jack!”

Oh shit. That’s Cas calling, and by the sound of the footsteps getting louder, he’s coming here.

Frozen with his ‘forbidden’ treats in his hands, Jack stares at Dean wide-eyed like a baby deer in the headlights. 

Making frantic shooing motions at him, Dean stage-whispers, ”Go, go, go!”

Jack only just makes it out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room before Cas enters, looking around.

“Have you seen Jack?”

“Uuuuh.” Dean realizes he’s still worrying at the dish towel and chucks it to the side. “No? No, I mean, yeah. He was here, but then he said he was gonna go take a nap.” He shrugs and offers Cas what he hopes looks like a perfectly clueless, innocent smile. “You want a beer? Coffee?”

Deflating, Cas shakes his head and walks over to inspect the cookie tray. “If he needs his rest, I suppose I shouldn’t disturb him. Were you baking again?”

"Yeah, wanna try?" Dean can see that Cas is about to refuse, so he picks up a cookie and holds it out to Cas with the best pleading look he can muster. "C’mon man, live a little."

Cas makes that grumpy teddy bear face and sighs, but he does accept the cookie. Their fingers brush a little. Cas takes a bite and chews and Dean’s heart soars. 

Cas scrunches up his face and Dean’s heart drops all the way down onto the floor. "Not good?"

"It's the molecules. They… get in the way of the flavor. Sometimes more, sometimes less." Cas does keep eating the cookie though. "You're a very good cook, Dean. Everyone is saying so."

Dean can feel his pout trying to morph into a shy smile, his ears and cheeks hot all over again. Ducking his head, he picks up the dish towel again, needing something to occupy his nervous hands with. He starts fussing with the string thingy that's at the top of the towel to hang it up, unable to come up with anything to say. 

What even the fuck. Why is he so fucking awkward? No wonder even Sam has more game than him. 

And then Cas, who doesn't get how embarrassing this shit is, has to go and make it worse. 

"I had always suspected it, but now that you’ve been given the opportunity—you're an admirable family man, Dean."

Oh fuck no. Dean thinking Cas was rejecting his cookies hurt, but this praise thing might be worse. Cas is looking at Dean all fondly and almost awed, and it's super not okay. 

"Uh, yeah, no, that’s, um." Overwhelmed, Dean stammers and stumbles over his words in a completely mortifying manner until he finally tries to save himself with "You're just easily impressed." 

Oh fuck he's such a bumbling idiot. No wonder Cas could never see him as anything other than a friend—and even that, Dean had almost fucked up. Way to fucking go.

Cas cocks his head at him and says "Dean," in a lightly scolding tone. 

To keep Cas from saying anything else that’s only going to make Dean flustered, he picks up another cookie and waves it in Cas’s face in a deliberately annoying manner. “Have another one. C’mon, you know you wanna.”

Predictably, Cas rolls his eyes and sighs long-sufferingly, but he does snatch the cookie out of Dean’s hand. Ha! Victory.

Dean starts to clean up the baking stuff so dinner prep can finally start. Cas is still munching his cookie and they're alone and good and—maybe—

"Hey, um." Oh fuck, is he really doing this? "Whaddaya say, once I've put the pot roast in the oven, wanna go kick back a little and watch something? Your pick."

Cas cocks his head to the side and squints. "I thought Sam was on a date and Jack was resting."

Heart pounding, Dean takes a breath. "Kinda—kinda thought just you 'n me." Somehow, the dish towel has ended up in his hands again. His fingers are twisting it anxiously and Dean can only hope he doesn’t look as messy as he feels. "Been a while since we talked and stuff and—yeah. Be good to do that. Talk. And stuff."

For a brief, glorious moment, Cas hesitates. And then—

"I should really go see if Jack is up again by now. Maybe—maybe another time."

It stabs. It _aches._ Dean manages a shaky nod and a gruff, "'course."

On the way out, Cas squeezes his shoulder. His palm is as warm and broad as ever, the touch _so good—_ and then it's gone. 

Dean keeps standing at the stove, twisting and twisting the dish towel in his hands. Finally, he throws it to the side and runs both hands over his face. This is okay. He's okay. He shouldn't have—

He kind of wants to scrap dinner. Jack and Sam are big boys, they know what to do with a frozen pizza. 

Dean looks down at the stove. There's still some warmth radiating from the oven. 

After putting the remaining cookies aside for Sam and Eileen, Dean wets a rag at the sink and cleans all the flour off the counter. He gathers the potatoes and the roast and the pots.

He scrubs at his eyes and rubs over his chest, and turns the oven on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hope](highschccldropout.tumblr.com) did an amazing job beta reading this. thank you so much lovely <3
> 
> if you enjoyed the fic, please comment and/or [reblog it on tumblr](https://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/post/632612916630257664/and-there-was-a-fire-on-the-hearth)! :)


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